Ecclesiastes got it wrong. It should be "to everyone there is a season". And mine's winter. I like duvets, cardigans, baked potatoes, not shaving my legs, shoes with socks – on me and others – thick jeans, bleak landscapes, ice, snow, hot coffee, warm whisky, warm whisky in hot coffee, a blanket on the sofa watching box sets while eating another baked potato.

Summer is for those who like salads, greenery, sleeping naked under a sheet instead of cocooned in flannelette and thermals, sleeveless dresses, pedicures and strappy sandals, iced tea and Pimms, laughing gaily in the sunshine instead of nodding sombrely indoors as another Norwegian killer is unmasked, or baking themselves on a beach as the sun beats down.

Summer makes visible all the internal and external differences between people that in kinder, gentler seasons go unnoticed, or at least unremarked. It belongs, obviously, to the outwardly gorgeous – those for whom the act of stripping down to the few clothes that are still bearable in the heat requires nothing more than a quick pass with the razor over a few small patches of unruliness, a spritz of bronzer or sunscreen and squint in the mirror to check for spinach between the teeth. Then it's off out to treat the world to the sight of their lissom frames, youthful musculature and poreless, naturally lambent skin whose glow seems to reach out and greet the sun as a cousin.

For the rest of us, it's a sweating, misery-making endurance test, a months-long battle to keep cool while keeping 90% of our badly depilated, instantly-lobstered flesh covered and experimenting with different but equally futile ways of keeping our inner thighs and sockless feet unchafed.

In a further twist of the knife for pallid shut-ins, summer also belongs to the extroverts. The picnics, the barbecues, the festivals. The bloody, bloody festivals. The whole world wants company. You can't move in London for people determinedly enjoying themselves on the filthy, polluted strips of pavement outside dismal eateries that comprise England's attempt at cafe culture.

At least this year it should be mercifully brief. Soon the clouds and the temperature will lower again. Soon it will be hot drinks instead of hot weather. Soon, soon, it will be cardigans once more.